


Get a Glimpse of This Candy Paint

by bamkam



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: I honestly have no idea where this is set in Marvel, I started it and the fic got away from me, Inspiration: Blow by Beyonce, M/M, Winterhawk Week, Winterhawk Week Day 8: Pleasure, even if they get the job done, there's only a little bit of sexy i'm sorry, where the three spies should never work together ever again, while pissing fury off every step of the way, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamkam/pseuds/bamkam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky got to fight some people, got to see a gay club (even if it was an evil one), and he totally got the guy in the end. </p>
<p>In all, he definitely counts his first SHIELD team mission as a success. Even if Fury doesn't think so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get a Glimpse of This Candy Paint

**Author's Note:**

> None of this is probably Comic-compliant, so I'm sorry about that. Still, I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> Title from "Blow" by Beyonce.

Standing amongst the sleek metal and humming machinery, the three spies look ridiculous.

Natasha somehow suffered the least amount of insult to her person, looking impeccably polished as if she just finished suiting up. It’s only when she moves and the light catches on her cat suit does the sparse amount of glitter become noticeable, glinting with each sway of her hips. On her, it looks intentional, as if the glitter was daubed to emphasis her most beautiful and dangerous assets—her red hair, her slender fingers, the handles of her knives give off a deadly shine underneath the lights.

Bucky supposes that he only looks marginally worse for show, largely appearing out of place in the helicarrier because of his mission-sanctioned street clothes. But with his hair glittering more than the metal of Natasha’s knives, even he doesn’t believe his lie. He feels too exposed, like he’s spilling secrets that no one needs to know about, and he hates the smears of dried, bright paint on his palms and the front of his jeans that he can see out of his periphery, hinting at what he’s touched and just what exactly he had wrapped around his hips. Still, the two of them combined fare far better than Clint.

SHIELD agents on this floor must, thankfully, have more experience—better spies, Bucky thinks—because their staring is at least less obtrusive than those who first picked them up. But heads still turn, just the barest amount, when Clint walks by, and frankly Bucky understands—it’s not often when a notable SHIELD agent saunters around in metallic purple lycra shorts, combat boots, and little else. Though it’s all of the body paint and glitter that attracts the most attention, and Clint is like a walking beacon, practically leaving a trail as he steps out of the elevator.

He’s been touched, _a lot_ , and the traces are all over him; a multitude of rainbow fingers have left trails on his skin, circling around his nipples and following the lines of his defined abs. Large swaths of multicolored neon cling to his arms and curl possessively around his throat. It’s caked in his hair too, in some sections the blond replaced by reds and blues and oranges, sticking strangely up by his neck. Dried colorful drips reach down to his shins, stemming from the smeared handprints all over his exposed thighs, and if Bucky looks out of the corner of his eye hard enough, he can spot the faint bruise on the backside of Clint’s left leg, where four fingers dug into his skin, disappearing underneath the skin-tight shorts. There’s really only one way to describe the archer in his current state—vehemently _debauched_ —and Bucky seriously wishes he could somehow carve those words out of his head with a paint-stained metal finger.

Though getting rid of the tell-tale look of pure satisfaction from the archer’s face would also work, because he swears that if Clint licks his lips like he’s just tasted heaven _one more time_ —

“Director Fury has been notified and will be here shortly. Meanwhile, we can see ourselves in.”

There’s a breeze behind him, and suddenly Coulson is there, all smiles with his hand already wrapped around the doorknob. Natasha is the first to enter, with Clint following closely behind, stretching his arms over his head and whining about “finally gonna be able to sit!”. Bucky trails in after the two, firmly ignoring Coulson’s pointed look down at the paint and glitter crusted on his metal hand.

Once in, it takes Bucky a second to realize that the room isn’t tiny, just that there is an overwhelmingly amount of _stuff_ in there. The walls are lined with all kinds of trinkets, from small figurines to actual framed artwork, with a huge bulletin board taking up the entirety of one wall, though its usefulness is questionable to Bucky, since every inch of the board is covered with maps and various papers. The desk is in same shape, with stacks of manila folders, grainy black-and-white photos, and printed reports thrown about. Everything in the room feels stale, and it takes Bucky a moment to spot the only piece of technology in the room—a calculator.

“This is Fury’s office?” Natasha glances at him, a faint quirk of her lips indicating her amusement at Bucky’s confusion, before she strides over to one of the straight-backed chairs and sits down. Clint’s already there, legs spread wide and head tipped over the back of the chair as he tries to balance what seems to be a paperweight on his noise. There’s already a halo of shimmer surrounding his chair, glitter pouring from him in waves every time he readjusts to prevent the weight from falling.

“Yup!” Clint puts extra emphasis on the ‘p’, sounding entirely too delighted, and cranes his neck to grin back at Bucky, the weight settled on the side of his nose. The fluorescent lights of the room do an excellent job of highlighting the line of small bruises along his neck, while the paint does horribly at covering them, already mostly flecked off. “Also known as the Clint Barton Appreciation Room!” He jabs his thumb in the direction of the desk. “All those papers? From me. And the stuff on the walls. Honestly, I thought he got rid of this room. I’m _so_ his favorite.” 

“ _Or_ all of the usual conference rooms are filled.” Natasha retorts, and Clint just waves her off. The confusion is still evident on Bucky’s face, and she snorts. “The things on the walls apparently prevent his shouting from reverberating. Clint thinks he’s smart.”

Bucky nods, ignoring the archer’s offended whine, and takes a second look around the room. “Everything seems so…old in here.”

At this, Clint simply shrugs. “Guess he doesn’t have to use it too much now that I’m with the Avengers.” His grin grows though as he pats the seat next to him. “Of course, he probably forgot what it’s like to work with me. C’mon, Buck. Take a seat. Fury’ll be here, and he hates when the scene isn’t set up perfectly.”

“Scene?” Bucky asks as he takes a seat in-between the two spies. Coulson remains standing in the back, he notices.

“Director Fury likes to…make an entrance, when he needs to reprimand his agents.” Natasha explains, and almost as if on cue the door behind them slams open, hitting the wall with a _bang_. She sighs, and throws an arm over the back of her chair. “And so it begins.”

“A Class-A mission,” Fury is all thunder, footsteps pounding on the ground and leather jacket slashing through the air as he makes his way around his desk. “You assholes nearly failed at a Class-A mission! Two of my best spies and the Winter fuckin’ Soldier nearly got their asses blown open on a _Class-A mission_!” 

The stacks of papers on his desk shift when Fury falls into his chair, the leather creaking as he brings his hands up to steeple them in front of his face. He’s glaring, but Bucky’s used to death glares. Fury finally looks away to grab a folder from his desk, opening it and throwing it out in front of the three spies.

“So. Who wants to excuse away their fuck ups first?”

Natasha looks impassive, almost bored, and Clint can’t stop grinning like an idiot. Coulson’s role in the entire thing is made clear when Bucky hears the small click of the door shutting behind them, and he inwardly groans. He would have just stayed on the jet if he knew he was going to get yelled at like a five year old.

Even if this whole thing wasn’t his fuckin’ fault.

-

The hotel is pretty standard. Five stories, most likely including a basement, with sealed windows and no fire escapes. Its close proximity to the surrounding buildings makes it easy for Bucky to get to the roof, and he’s unpacked and assembling his sniper rifle when Natasha and Clint land next to him.

“Did anyone see you?” Natasha greets, leaning over to kiss Bucky on his forehead, before she begins checking her pouches. As he slots the scope into place, Bucky shakes his head.

“Not enough people around to even look up. You?”

Clint snorts, already twisting trick arrowheads onto their shafts as he scopes out the scene below. It’s dark, but not yet late enough, and only a few people mill about outside the opposite building. “Pretty sure Tasha scared a pair of honeymooning birds, but that’s about it.” He pauses, and presses his finger against his ear. “Right. Coulson’s got us on line two.”

Bucky and Natasha dutifully set their comm units, and Coulson’s voice rings through Bucky’s head as clearly as if he were standing on the roof with them. “Everyone’s in?”—a small chorus of affirmations reply—“Excellent. Positions: the Winter Soldier stays, with sights on the top left, second row, third down. Hawkeye will follow Black Widow from the outside.” Bucky has already trained his eyes on the target window, and Clint is stretching, ready to begin. “Black Widow, check the bag, you will—“

Coulson pauses, and the distant sound of another agent’s voice can be heard through the ear pieces. The three of them exchange a look. “Right. Scrap that. Intel’s telling me that this is a homosexual gentlemen’s club.”

There’s a beat of silence before Clint mutters, “You’re shitting me. A sleazy club for gay men?”

“Equality, Barton.” Despite the last-minute change in information, Coulson’s voice remains composed. “Now which one of you…?” Natasha’s eyebrows raise, and Bucky can feel his stomach drop out. A _gay_ club—even thinking the words sets his heartbeat spiking. Something that would have gotten him beaten, dishonorable discharge, _killed_ back in the forties now has special clubs? Time has changed— _seventy years_ —he knows, but Bucky can still hear the threats snarled in his ear and feel the closed fists colliding with his jaw, a memory he wishes would’ve stayed forgotten. He glances at the archer, who is frowning at him slightly, before glaring down at his gun.

“I’ll do it.” Clint shrugs, and swings his arrow pack off his shoulders. “Coulson, tell your people to not suck at their jobs. Hey, Nat, your shorts better not cut off my balls.” Grabbing the duffel bag, he walks off to the back of the roof to change.

“Oh, they will!” Natasha calls, just loud enough to be heard, and when she turns back to Bucky, her mouth creases at his frightened look. “James—“

“I’m fine.” He says too quickly, and inwardly winces.

Almost immediately, Coulson is back in his ear. “Barnes, it may take time to get comfortable with the information, but a lot has happened since the forties.”

“I know that.” Bucky snaps, bouncing his metal thumb against the butt of his rifle nervously. Natasha continues to watch him, her piercing eyes following his movements, and he really wants her to stop.

“All I need to know,” Coulson says slowly, and it sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully, “is if you’ll be able to complete this mission with the right disposition.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, and he unconsciously grips his rifle a little harder. “ _Yes_ , yeah, I’ll be fine, sir.” He will be, he’s sure of it; in fact, he’s even cautiously excited to see what a gay club—a club for _him_ —looks like.

“For fucks sake, Nat, I have no idea why they thought you’d wear something like this!” Clint strolls out from the shadows with the duffel bag, and he can’t stop pulling at the—Bucky sputters and nearly drops his gun because those are _not_ shorts, those are obscene and entirely unforgiving and Clint must be— _has to be_ missing pieces of the outfit. “I mean, they’re _purple_! Since when do you ever wear purple? It’s like they knew!” He laughs while trying to figure out where to stash his knife, though there’s not much room; the lycra shorts reveal every bump and bulge, and the mesh top is not much cover. Clint settles for tucking the weapon away inside his boot.

“Definitely need a picture of this,” Coulson says.

Natasha snorts as she snaps a picture, which Clint is only too happy to pose for. “I’ll have to talk to the wardrobe department, apparently.”

When Clint bends over to pick up his arrow pack, Bucky finally breaks. “Why the fuck are you only half-dressed?”

-

“Anyone?”

No one speaks up, and Fury lets out a long sigh, rubbing at his forehead. He leans forward, obscuring some of the reports that Bucky was staring at instead of the director, and points a finger at Natasha. “Alright, Romanoff, I choose you—“ Clint laughs, his knees jiggling even harder under the table, “ _Can it, Barton_ —you apparently fucked up the least; you go first.”

Natasha sits straighter in her chair, shaking back her loose curls and starts without preamble. “Sir, with a last minute change in the mission, Agent Barton was the one to enter the target building…”

-

Clint slips by security with ease, getting out of being checked for ID by playing with the waistband of his shorts, and saunters over to the bar. Several men stop him along the way, pulling him close to whisper into his ear and ghost their hands over his body, but Clint manages to smoothly escape each time with a sultry wink and false promises. After the bartender hands him a beer, Clint takes a sip as he looks out into the crowd, and murmurs, “checking in.”

Up above, Bucky stands on an adjacent building that butts right against the club and peers in through one of the windows. It takes him awhile, but he eventually spots Clint. “Stationed. Second-story.”

“Confirmed.” Natasha says. “Rooftop and waiting.”

Clint glances up at the row of smaller windows lining the top of the walls and takes another sip. “Windows?”

“It’s a converted warehouse. Unoriginal villain meeting place at its finest.” Natasha explains, and Bucky watches Clint nod before setting his drink down.

“Aw, man, why are baddies so boring? Alright guys, hot or cold me when I get close.” Fixing a grin on his face, the archer heads into the mass of dancing bodies.

As much as Bucky is loath to admit, Clint is a natural when it comes to dancing. His body moves flawlessly in beat to the music, arms raised and hips swaying as he dips low and spreads his legs. His hands don’t stop messing with the hem of his shirt, constantly dragging the material over his abs before dropping it to grip the hips of whoever comes up to dance with him, and Clint moves so, so close against the other men, until their lips are nearly touching and there’s no space in-between and even Bucky is gasping at the heat of the movements. It’s mesmerizing, and Bucky wants to kiss the serum for giving him such good eyes because he could watch this—watch _Clint_ —for hours.

And it only gets better when employees start handing out paint packets—“aw, yeah, theme night!” Clint whoops—and suddenly everyone in the club has them, fingers dipping into the colorful paints and daubing them all over their own bodies and everyone else’s. For a moment, Bucky loses sight of Clint in the crowd, and he’s about to alert Natasha when he finally spots the archer up on a platform. Three other men are with him, their packets already opened and hands full of paint, and they’re dragging their fingers up and down Clint’s arms, slapping his ass and marking him all over as they grind against him. When one of the men behind Clint reaches up with a paint-covered hand to pull at his hair, Bucky growls, his metal hand tightening too hard around his pistol, denting the handle.

“Easy tiger,” Natasha warns, but Bucky doesn’t hear her. Tearing his eyes away, Bucky quickly scans the rest of the crowd and is relieved—probably _too_ relieved—when his eyes land on a balding head adorned with a single, small tattoo.

“Got eyes on you, Hawkeye.” He says quickly.

“More than one pair, apparently.” Even when on two separate buildings, Bucky can still feel Natasha’s eyes on him.

It’s enough to get Clint to pull away from the other men, and Bucky feels smug as he watches the men look forlornly after the archer as he jumps down from the platform. “Up against the opposite wall with a drink, birdie.”

“So,” Clint asks as he makes his way over. He sounds delightfully out of breath, and his heavy breathing makes Bucky shift uncomfortably. “How’s Mr. Forties doing? Have his eyes shriveled up from all of the sinful debauchery yet?”

“I’d say the opposite, actually.” Natasha muses, and Bucky can feel the beginnings of a blush dust his cheeks.  

“ _I’d say_ you guys are full of shit—“

“Approaching.” Bucky snaps his mouth shut, and grinds his teeth when he can only see the back of Clint’s paint-covered head and nothing else as the crowd nearly hides the duo. But he can tell from the target’s grin that he’s pleased that Clint came to him, and even wraps his arm around the archer’s shoulders. He says something to Clint, who nods, and suddenly the target is mouthing the line of Clint’s throat, other hand reaching up to grip the back of Clint’s hair, and all Bucky can see is red as the handle of his pistol actually cracks in his grip.

“Barnes—“

“Knew you wanted me, big boy,” Clint manages to get out between stuttering gasps, and Bucky is going to kill the target first if he doesn’t stop licking at Clint’s throat—

“H—m? Come—room upstairs—qui— _Please_.” Clint’s earpiece picks up pieces of what the target whispers into his ear, and Bucky so badly wants to strangle the ugly, deep voice until that throat can’t open again. The minute the two of them head for the stairs, Bucky is already off running, leaping across the gaps between the buildings and sliding down ladders until his feet hit the concrete sidewalk.

“ _Barnes_!”

-

“—You directly disobeyed the orders given by Agent Coulson and chose to run off like a jealous teenager—“ Fury’s yelling, and Bucky should probably be paying attention since this is actually his job now; he should be trying to do better and taking notes to not endanger the success of future missions. But Clint’s beaming at him while playing with the paint on his left arm underneath the desk, so he’s pretty distracted. “—shit like that might’ve slid by Captain America, but _here_ at SHIELD—“

Oh hell no. Bucky’s head snaps up and glares at the director. “ _Captain America_ and me never had to infiltrate a gay club either, so who knows what he would’ve done,” he pauses, just for a beat, before adding, “sir.”  

Fury looks appropriately outraged, and Bucky feels a small amount of pride at that.

“Agent Coulson then tried to speak to Agent Barnes,” Natasha, taking advantage of the gap in the yelling, immediately goes back to explaining the mission, and Bucky is _so_ going to buy her a new set of knives out of appreciation.

-

“Winter Solider,” Coulson has been patched back in, his voice even but the hint of a threat is tangible. “You’re on-ground only if necessary! Get back up to position and stay—“

“Just don’t shoot me, Romanov.” Bucky growls, unzipping his armored coat and unclasping his thigh holster, leaving him only in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He doesn’t stop moving, breezing past security with bribery, and he’s soon assaulted by the pounding music and dancing bodies.

Almost immediately, alarm bells go off in his head. A quick glance around tells him that five suited men are aware of his entrance, and the one closest to the door is inching closer with their hand inside their jacket. Bucky doesn’t make eye contact, pretends instead to bob his head along to the music, and promptly turns heel toward the other side of the club. He skirts around the perimeter, narrowly avoiding outstretched hands, spilled drinks and dripping paint, though he can’t avoid the employee who is handing out more paint packets. Pocketing them, he takes one last glance behind him before he starts up the stairs.

“Light went on. Barton and target are in.” Natasha’s voice warns right as a hand grabs Bucky’s shoulder and whirls him around, nearly sending him down the stairs. A fist comes for Bucky’s face and he ducks, unsteadily regaining balance on the steps, before planting his metal shoulder into the suited man’s chest and throwing him against the wall. Bucky doesn’t stop, quickly following with a sharp punch into their nose, forcing their head to bounce against the wall, and the prone body crumbles, falling halfway down the steps.

“Oh wow, there’s a bed in there. Poor Barton. Guy’s so not his type.” Bucky stops only to grab the gun with a silencer hidden underneath the suit jacket before he’s rushing back up the steps, taking two at a time. “Baldie just bit Clint. Kinky.” Natasha sounds bored, but Bucky only gets angrier. “Oh—это только что получил интересное—he just ripped Clint’s shirt.” Two security guards are at the top of the stairs, and he dispatches them with two well-aimed shots to their knees and a heavy kick to their heads. The rest of the hall is clear, and Bucky stalks the length of it to the second row of stairs.

“Barton’s certainly putting on a show.” Bucky responds with a feral growl and races to the top, gun drawn and panting as he assesses the hallway. No one is there, but he doesn’t put the gun down as he carefully moves, counting the doors as he passes— _second row third down_. “Barnes remember not to do anything until we get the infor— _target’s got a gun_!”

Bucky breaks into a run down the hall, craning his ears in an attempt to hear even the smallest sound behind the doors, to hear the familiar sounds of a fight, but there’s no noise other than the muffled sound of his boots hitting the carpet. He skids to a stop in front of what he hopes to be the right door and tries the handle—locked—and promptly kicks the door open. He’s past the threshold and aiming his gun before he even fully takes in the scene.

“What the—who the fuck are you!”

Clint’s on the ground with a knee in his throat, looking half-dazed; the target rears back from looming over the archer and Bucky catches sight of a gun and a knife before he ducks to the left, scarcely avoiding a round of gunfire that pelts the opposite door in the hallway. Through the holes he can hear screaming, and distantly wonders how many people are around.

He’s back on his feet in an instant, shooting with his metal hand as he rushes the pair, and collides against the target, toppling him over onto the ground. “ _Fucker_ —“ The knife clatters to the ground, but the target still has a stubborn hold on the pistol, and they thrash it against Bucky’s head right as he punches them in the jaw. Behind him, Clint scrambles away, clutching one of his arms close to his chest.  

It’s not enough, and the man manages to flip Bucky over, slamming his face into the carpet. “Who sent you!” Bucky can’t shake him, the target has his knees pressed into his arms, and he can’t get enough momentum with his legs to push him off. There’s a sickening _pop_ behind them that Bucky just barely registers. “I’ll kill you— _both_ of you! Send a message to the asshole that they can’t ever stop me! You can’t get rid of me that—“

“Get off him.” Clint’s voice is low, leaves no room for argument, and Bucky can feel the target stiffen above him. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t make any other sound except for a faint exhale, and he slowly stands up. “Move back.”

The second his arms are free, Bucky flips himself around and jumps up to see that Clint has his knife pressed against the target’s throat, hard enough to reveal a thin red line, with one of the target’s arms twisted painfully behind their back.

“Get to the window.” The man hesitates, tries to jerk his head away, only to be rewarded with the knife point pressed harder against his throat, startling a grunt from his throat. He moves a foot as if he’s going to comply, but then ducks straight down and away from Clint, his free hand reaching out for the dropped gun. Bucky darts forward, but Clint doesn’t move, and the man lets out a scream as he slumps against the archer’s legs, his arm now being held up behind him in an almost inhuman angle. “Wasn’t expecting me to have a good grip, were you?” Clint kicks him, the muscles in his thighs jerking, forcing the target unsteadily back to his feet.

Despite his wounded appearance, the target growls and spits at Bucky, since he can’t turn to Clint. “If you kill me, you bastards will never be able to get out! I have eyes all over this building! They’ll tear you up before you even get out the door!”

“Shut up and get to the window, asshole,” Clint snarls, and tugs on the target’s injured arm. The look in his eyes are thunderous, and despite all the glitter and paint, he looks absolutely predatory.

Bucky gulps.

-

“Agent Barton then brought the target to the window, and interrogated them about his boss through various methods.” Natasha reports. Bucky watches out of the corner of his eye as Clint massages one of his reddened knuckles. “Once we got it, he signaled to me, and I completed the task of eliminating the target.”

Fury remains silent, his face a solid mask as he sits with his arms crossed, quietly contemplating the three spies. He takes turns, holding each gaze for several minutes until moving onto the next person, and even looks over their heads to look back at Coulson, who has not moved from his position by the door.

Eventually, he wheels around to face Natasha again and impatiently waves his hand.

“And?”

Natasha doesn’t even look fazed. “And what, sir?”

 “ _And_ ,” Fury leans forward, momentum building, as he jabs a finger against the desk. “I want to know what else happened after the shot to warrant having these two assholes,”—he jerks his thumb at Clint and Bucky—“ _banned_ from the club, and not even for killing a guy!”

The heated glance Natasha sends Bucky could quite possibly set him on fire and he looks away, shifting in his seat as he crosses his arms. Clint, he notices, has slumped further in his chair to avoid being in Natasha’s line of vision. “I don’t know what you mean—“

“We have audio feedback,” Fury interrupts. Natasha goes silent, and Bucky freezes. He definitely owes her more than a new set of knives. “And you’re covered in glitter too, Romanoff.”

-

Clint’s back hits the wall hard but he pays no attention, too busy concentrating on the feel of Bucky’s lips on his own. Bucky crowds up against him, pressing the length of his body against the archer’s, and his hands are everywhere, mapping out the defined lines of muscle in his arms, the dips of his collarbones, the hard, twitching planes of his abs. Clint gasps, the sound swallowed by Bucky’s mouth; the metal is freezing, even more so when the mechanical fingers drag through the still-fresh paint and coat bare skin.

“W-wait, we need to go-oh, oh _god_ ,” Clint groans, clutching onto Bucky’s shoulders when he pushes his thigh in-between the archer’s legs. His hands are pressing harder, fingernails scratching at Bucky’s neck every time his rolls his hips in a way that make Clint’s eyes roll back, moaning loud. Bucky retaliates by biting and sucking at plump lips, his tongue swirling against Clint’s, before nipping a trail of red marks down his neck.

It’s not good enough, Bucky wants him closer, wants to feel more of Clint, and he hooks his hands on the backs of Clint’s thighs and hefts him up, practically crooning when the new position lets him feel more of Clint’s hardness. Clint must agree because his thighs tighten around Bucky’s hips and arches his back, moaning loud as he ruts against him. “O-oh, fuck, _fuck, Bucky_ —want you so bad, for s- _so long_!”

“Wanted you more,” Bucky pants, and sucks in a breath when Clint’s hand pulls at his hair, forcing his head up to ram their mouths back together. His fingers dig into Clint’s thighs, grinding harder and groaning each time their clothed erections rub together. He’s so close, it feels so, so good, just a little more—

“What the hell are you two doing!”

Immediately, the two men freeze. Bucky can’t see, but Clint’s sudden grip on his shoulders and open-mouthed stare tells him all he needs to know. He can’t help but distractedly think about how nice Clint’s expression would look when on his knees, and his hips jerk slightly. Clint glances down at him. “Uh.”

“We called for the first floor to clear out like twenty minutes ago and you two are still going at it?! Buddy, you can play with the whore later!” The security guard doesn’t move from the door, doesn’t try to conceal the disgust on his face, and Clint looks wildly affronted. “Come on, you have to get out!” He has a gun out, pointed at the ceiling, and he’s irritably waving at them, but Clint can’t bring himself to move. Bucky, thankfully, lets him down carefully, moving back just enough to turn around, but Clint just stands there, still dumbstruck. Suddenly, the guard’s eyebrows furrow and he peers at Clint.

“Hey, you don’t work here—“ The butt of a rifle collides against the guard’s skull and he immediately crumples to the floor. Stepping over him, a seething Natasha appears in the doorway.

“I literally hate both of you придурки so much. Let’s fucking _go_ , already!”

-

The room is too quiet, and Bucky really doesn’t appreciate any of the silent judgments.

“So, you mean to tell me,” Fury begins but stops. He seems to be having trouble trying to figure out which direction to take the conversation, though if the systematic tapping against the armchair is any indication, Bucky knows there will be more yelling. He wishes Coulson would stop staring at him too. It’s making the back of his neck itch. “That you two got banned—nearly cost the entire mission—for _trespassing_? Because you two tried to go at it like rabbits afterwards?!” He roars, now standing up, and slams his palms on the desk.

And really, Bucky feels calmer than he probably should be right now. He shrugs. “We were relieving tension.”

This sends Fury in a sputtering fit, and he rounds on Bucky, savagely pointing at him when Natasha clears her throat. “Sir, this…tension had been building for months. Acting on it right then was stupid— _ridiculously_ stupid,” both Clint and Bucky wince, “but it also was possibly the only way they would have been able to hide their identities until I could get to them. The place was crawling with guards once there was gunfire.”

“They have a description of Barton!” He shouts back. “Sources tell me everyone at the club thinks _he’s_ the prostitute who’s been stealing money from them! They’re keeping watch for him!”

“No way!” Clint shouts and starts laughing hysterically, falling over onto Bucky’s shoulder. “Holy _shit_ , who would’ve expected an evil gay club to have problems with their evil employees!” Clint’s crying from laughing so hard, completely ignorant to all of the glares directed at him, and Bucky shoves at him.

“ _And_ we got your information. The mission we were assigned was still a success,” Natasha says, and Bucky can actually hear Fury’s teeth clack together. Instead of responding, he simply slumps back down in his chair with a long-suffering sigh.

“I am never pairing you three together _ever_ again.” Behind them, Coulson opens the door. “We’re done here.”

Natasha nods and gets up without a word, and Bucky hesitates but follows. Clint, however, doesn’t move, and immediately stops laughing, looking completely serious.  

 “Sir,” he starts, but the façade is ruined when he lets out a giggle, and Fury holds up his hand, using the other to rub at his eyes.

“Barton, don’t even.”

“If you could just christen our relationship—“

“ _Get the fuck out of my office_.”

**Author's Note:**

> это только что получил интересное - this just got interesting  
> придурки - assholes


End file.
